Bewitched
by paroro
Summary: He's a ruthless killer, and she's an innocent soprano. She met him as her Angel. He met her as his victim. [EC, modern retelling, rating might up to M later, R&R please!]
1. Prologue

First of all, let me make clear that this will be an Erik/Christine story. I don't like stories where they meet in chapter one, and end up getting together in chapter four, so this will be an _eventual_ E/C story. To get into a few more details, this story is based a little off Kay's Phantom (some of the characters, etc). It is, in short, a retelling of our story that has an extremely heavy twist. Stay with me and find out? (:

**Disclaimer:** I _wish_ I owned PotO… or Erik, at least.

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**Prologue**

"Oh, you do flatter me so!"

Laughter and cheerful voices rang out through the ballroom. The maid was cleaning hastily around the edges of the door, and she couldn't help but peek at the beautiful array of colors that made up the breath-taking evening dresses. The little maid dropped automatically to her hands and knees as a few guests walked by her, fanning themselves with their dainty fans. The maid darted a quick look into the room again, marveling at the richly dressed guests.

Of course, she reflected to herself, scrubbing away at the floor, the ballroom was rarely empty; heavens knows that Master Quarienne was always throwing parties for himself, his "women" (the Master never thought of marrying, if you know what I mean), and his many friends. The maid peeked another glance into the room; she wasn't sure if everyone in that room knew each other, but fine wine and delicate pasties would loosen up their tongues and they would all eventually greet and meet.

Exactly what the Master did, no one was quite sure. The little maid quickly stood up and curtsied politely as the man in question walked out, his escort for the night clinging adoringly to his arm. The fact remained that he brought home stupendous amounts of money each month. There were rumors that the Master (Sir Head-of-the-House, Lord Quarienne; his list of titles go on for ages) was involved in rather sketchy businesses across Paris; the maid tried not to believe in such things. Why, the very idea of Monsieur Quarienne working with…

Im_possible_!

Although, she had to admit, the man was not exactly the most… she pushed such rude thoughts out of her mind; she was paid very well, and she should not be thinking such horrid things about the Master.

At length, the guests began taking their leave, and the little maid hurriedly stepped back to avoid tripping anyone by accident. She bobbed a few curtsies here and there, and quickly returned to her dormitories before anyone could properly notice her.

Walking at a remarkably rapid pace, she reached the third floor balcony just as the guests began exiting the mansion. The maid always liked to watch them going; all the women looked so darn beautiful in their expensive dresses, and all the men looked so handsome. She could never hope to be like that, of course, but she could dream. The maid leaned out, and pretended to dust the nearby drapery as she snuck glances out at the people.

She was so absorbed in acting casual, and her attention was so easily snagged by the fancy clothes. The poor girl didn't even know what hit her.

All at once, she found it hard to breathe; it was not a normal choking feeling. There was something flexible and thin tightening around her neck. Unfortunately for her, she did not get a chance to register this. In all honesty, she did not even realize that there was something around her neck until her neck snapped, and she died. Just like that.

Erik flicked his wrist nonchalantly, and the noose slackened immediately. He tucked the Punjab lasso back into his belt, and stood impassively, gazing down at the dead body of the girl. Poor thing, not even twenty years old and already her life had ended. He didn't bother to check if any of the guests had seen the girl suddenly fall back; he could hear their happy chattering drifting up from below. Quietly, he stood in the shadows and his lips pulled into a wry smile.

It was regrettable that he had had to kill the girl, but she was fidgeting so much with the curtains that she was going to end up discovering his hiding spot; he couldn't have that, now could he?

Twenty minutes later and Erik had successfully disposed of the girl's body; lashed to three heavy rocks, he had let her sink into the depths of the lake that ran through the mansion's backyard. He watched the dark form of the girl's body disappearing for a while, leaning against a tree. Oh, no one would see him; it was quite late into the evening, and he was dressed all in black, with a heavy velvet cape, and a fedora pulled over to cast a shadow in his face; it was a wonder that he could see himself.

Erik waited another few moments, just to be sure that the body wouldn't decide to float up again. For extra measure, he waited another minute or two.

Then the real waiting began. He had been here since sunset, but he would be here for a while yet as he would wait for all the lights in the house to turn off before making his move. His oddly yellow eyes, glittering like a cat's, surveyed the almost pitch-black night around him. The gardeners were in bed already, the guests were already gone, and now he just had to wait for the "Master" to finish screwing with whichever woman he had with him tonight.

Erik smiled humorlessly, and adjusted the snug-fitted mask over his face. Everyone at Masquerade Inc. wore masks, of course. It was part of the contract; you sign up to work, you go under a code name, and you wear a mask. No one knows who you are, you do not know who anyone else is, and that is the way things are. In his twenty-six years of working at M. Inc., he had overheard plenty of, "I hate wearing masks" and "It scratches my face" and other complaints, but he liked the feeling of cool leather against his skin.

His mask was custom made. He wouldn't have it any other way. The white leather fit perfectly against his face, hiding everything except for his chin and lips. There were holes in the nose wide enough for him to breathe comfortably, and the slits for eyes were just fine to see through.

Patiently, he stood against the tree. He barely moved a muscle for the next two hours, and only when every single light had been doused, and a good interval of time had passed, did he finally uncross his arms and stifle a yawn.

He should ask for a raise.

Well, everything seemed to be in order.

He set back to the front of the house, gliding effortlessly from shadow to shadow. The night was his element and no one could maneuver in it quite as well as he did. His heavy cape swirled around his ankles, sometimes lifting up as he made swift movements. Like the wings of an overgrown bat, the cape fanned out behind him. Efficiently, calculatingly, he climbed up a tree, jumped lightly on to a branch, and walked from the branch to a balcony, as if he did that every day.

Quarienne's bedroom was the fourth room from the right of the second staircase on the top floor. He mentally repeated the directions to himself again, and noiselessly slid the balcony window open. He eased into the room, darted through into the hallway, and began counting the rooms.

Casually, he picked the lock on the designated room, and let himself in.

It was completely dark; no lights were lit, and the curtains were drawn. But none of that affected Erik's cat-like vision. He could see the lump of blankets that was Quarienne, and he walked towards the man quite calmly. Once he was at the bedside, he glanced around, and pulled the curtains back so some moonlight could shine in.

"_Quarienne,_" he said softly, "_wakey, wakey._"

The man opened his eyes immediately, a spasm of fear rocketing through his bloodshot eyes, but Erik did not give him time to react.

He was dead before he could draw a breath.

"You know I do not take kindly to not being paid for my services," he said mellifluously, opening a cupboard and serenely taking out a wad of thousand franc notes, "do not ask for me again if you are unwilling to pay."

Erik unwound the lasso from around the man's neck, setting it away once more in his belt. He arranged the room to look exactly like it was before he had entered. He retraced his steps through the house, fixed everything the way it should be, and imperturbably took his leave.

It was merely another day in his life.

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**A/N:** It is just prologue, a vague introduction to Erik and his job… (: If you haven't figured it out yet, he's an assassin. I know, _not original!_ But this is only the prologue, so... give me a chance. :D Please leave a review, it's what fuels us writers.


	2. One

Thanks for all the support so far, guys. D! I really hope you will be sticking with me, because I usually need a lot of encouragement or else I end up losing interest in my own stories. I'm lame like that. Sigh

**Added Notes:** I've gotten a few prods about Erik killing that maid girl, and I just edited chapter one so I can include this note (the actual chapter isn't changed). First and foremost, I am aware that Erik doesn't seem the type to kill females, but I would also like to remind you that nowhere in the movie, or Kay's book, or Leroux's book (I assume, since I've read it, but I don't really remember it because I didn't really like it) does it ever _say_ that Erik does not kill women. Specifically in Kay's book, I quote Erik, "I had done many terrible things, but I had never harmed a helpless woman."

My take on this entire business is that Erik does not kill women because he finds it unworthy of his time. Women do not put up a fight, and there is not much of a point in killing them. But above all, I write a slightly darker Erik, and he did not become the most successful assassin of Masquerade Inc. by refusing to kill whoever he was assigned to kill. What makes him highly successful is that he rarely feels remorse. I quote Mademoiselle Perrault, from Kay's book, "I don't think he would consider it wickedness—simply the next logical step toward his objective."

I fully agree with that. Erik's view on reality is warped enough already. "The end justifies the means" is Erik's "motto", I believe. Erik does not go out of his way to kill women. In this story, he kills because he has to. That maid would have flushed him out of his hiding spot if he had not stopped her. So, to remain hidden and ensure the success of his revenge on Quarienne, he had to kill the maid.

It's just logic.

In Kay's book, specifically, it merely says that he had not killed/harmed/etc any women before, but that didn't mean that he was going to never harm a woman. He did come dangerously close to whalloping the Khanum, if anyone remembers/has read Kay's book.

At any rate… I don't believe that Erik killing females is out of character for him. On a psychological viewpoint, he has so many disorders that it might actually be out of character for him _not_ to kill a woman. I mean, the only reason that Kay-written Erik does not harm women is because of Mademoiselle Perrault, who was extremely kind to him in his younger years, and who happened to be quite a fluttery type of person. Then again, he has probably harmed plenty of the ballet rats at the Opera House. Just because something isn't mentioned, doesn't mean it didn't happen. I could use the ending of Kay's book as an example, but I don't want to ruin it for anyone who hasn't read it.

But I digress.

I hope I got my point across… which is that, more or less, this is my version of Erik and it does not contrast to his personality, IMHO. I'm not trying to shoot down any critique, either. I love hearing what people have to say, but I had to get across the fact that I _do_ know a lot about Erik's character, and I am not one of those people who attempt to write a creative story who have only seen the 2004 movie. NOT that everyone who has only seen the movie is a bad writer, I assure you! Oo

… wow, that was a really, really, _really_ long note. I better shut up now, lmao. I LOVE YOU GUYS!

**Disclaimer:** Disclaimer goes here.

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**One.**

Erik stared at the man in front of him. The man stared back. There was a long interval of silence, before the man finally spoke.

"So?"

Erik leaned back in his chair, looking away contemptuously. "So _what?_"

"So is he dead?" the other insisted.

"Of course he's dead, you dolt," was the blasé reply.

"So?" The man winced, fidgeting.

Irritated now, Erik sat up with a glare on his face. Of course, the man couldn't see this; Erik was wearing the required mask. But the look in the poor guy's face suggested that he could feel the throbbing, not-at-all entertained vibrations from him.

"So _what?_" he repeated, for the second time that morning. His voice was edgy now. Christ, his old boss wasn't half as vague as this new one was.

"So, why are you here?" the other ventured to ask, sounding nervous, feeling as if he was the employee and not the other way around.

Erik stared at him flatly. "I want a raise." He shrugged gently.

"_Phantom!_" his boss burst out incredulously, gripping the edge of his desk with white knuckled hands. It seemed that amazement had finally broken his apprehension and he was now exclaiming, "You are already at the top of the list, we pay you the most, you know that! My God, man, if you keep asking for raises, you're going to end up being paid more than _I_ am!"

Erik didn't flinch at the outburst of his "nickname", only coolly replied, "Then perhaps I should be paid more than you; you do nothing more than shuffle papers and give everyone assignments."

Such unrestrained arrogance! The thin under layer of a threat did not go unnoticed. The man bit the inside of his cheek nervously; this man, he thought, this Phantom… had the most beautiful, captivating voice. But that voice was dangerous. If you listened to it for too long, or too closely, you would be sucked into his trap.

It was Erik's signature way of killing. He lured others toward him with the power of his voice; this technique he used especially on women victims. First he would gain their trust and they would blindly and obediently follow his voice and even while he reached out to snap their necks, they would be powerless to run.

The boss trembled. He was new on the job, and had not yet gained the indifferent approach to life that all the "old hands" had here. He had only been here for a month or two, and already he had had several unpleasant run-ins with the infamous Phantom.

He had been warned time and time again to "stay out of his way" and "never question his motives". The Phantom was not a man to be crossed, so the stories went; he had been working for the company for close to twenty-six years, but his allegiance lay with himself. There was not much known about the top killer at Masquerade Inc., except that he came to them when he was sixteen, and that put him at forty-two years old.

It was not explained _how_ the Phantom managed to be accepted at such a tender age. The company did not hire anyone under nineteen; the Phantom must have been quite a persuasive boy. The new boss swallowed nervously, and averted his eyes from the piercing yellow gaze.

It was those eyes that the boss was scared of; those hauntingly yellow eyes that were constantly boring holes in whatever they were looking at. It was not that those eyes lacked expression. It was the sheer amount of emotion that they burned with that scared the man the most. He had seen demonstrations of the Phantom's awesome proficiency with that thing called the Punjab lasso, and it was the blatant _pleasure_ that shone from those eyes that made him want to piss his pants.

The Phantom had no qualms about killing. He _liked_ to kill. The eyes showed it all.

"I suppose," he began indecisively, still not meeting the Phantom's oddly golden eyes, "I could consider it… but you know that we didn't send you to snuff out Quarienne, so we cannot pay you for that."

"It was an act of revenge on my part," Erik replied composedly, "but I still want a raise."

Erik was highly aware of the fear and trepidation that emanated from his "boss"; the poor man, hardly used to the flippant ways of the experienced employees.

"I'll think about that," the man finally muttered, and Erik allowed himself a small, triumphant smile.

He stood up, satisfied for the time being. "That is all," he cut short the "conversation", already turning to leave.

"Wait, Phantom!"

Erik's hand was already on the doorknob of the head office door, but he turned to fix the boss with a semi-impatient look. "Yes?"

Now the man was really squirming. "Well, there is a new employee…" he trailed off meaningfully.

Erik stared at him blankly. "And you want me to train him."

"Her," the boss corrected quickly (Erik arched a brow delicately), but nodded, "Yes, you are the most, uh, experienced and efficient, and it won't be too much of a hassle," he went on hastily, wincing at the stony expression on the Phantom's face, "it really won't be, she's a fast learner."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Will I get a raise?"

Defeated, the boss only nodded mutely.

"Excellent," Erik said carelessly, "I'll be in my office." He was halfway out of the door when the boss stood up.

"Phantom!"

Erik grit his teeth and turned again. "_Yes?_"

"When – when might I send her to you?"

"When she is ready," was the short reply before he finally swept out of the room.

The boss collapsed in his chair and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

Erik moved through the halls of the enormous building, glancing occasionally from left to right. A few employees hailed him, and he lifted his hand lazily in acknowledgement. There was a brief company meeting this afternoon, and all who would not be busy on "assignments" would be attending.

Masquerade Inc. was a big, highly successful business that dealt with paid killings. The system that they used was called "reciprocity". You give some and you get some; the workers did your dirty work (you know, kill a lord here, snuff out a lady there) and they don't give a lick about your motives or whom you want them to kill, as long as you pay them well.

It was not a difficult strand of work, really. The way Erik saw it was "if you need to kill to survive, then you need to kill to survive". It was a dog eat dog world out there, and Erik had no love for humans at any rate. Humans were disgusting creatures, quick to judge, and quick to scorn. Erik felt no fondness for the human race. He often spoke about _Homo sapiens _as if he were not part of them. Then again, not many people considered him human at all.

He edged by a few desks; the layout of the building was quite simple. There were twenty-one stories, and approximately fifteen rooms on each floor. The first floor had a grand foyer; what it looks like, is that you walk in the main double oak doors, and you are faced with the secretary's desk. That desk is nestled snugly between two wide horseshoe-shaped sets of stairs, which lead up to the second floor. The entire building was beautiful and rich in colors, what with all the heavy red draperies, and the glittering brass ornaments.

Indeed, the building looked more like an opera house than a stone-cold building for blood business.

Now, the first floor has a reception hall, and to either side of where you enter (through the main doors, just to refresh your memory) are two long hallways. The hallway on your left leads into various rooms where you might find some of the "big boys". They usually filed the assignments (who had to stab who, etc, etc) there. That was the "manual" side of the first floor—you understand, yes? All the paperwork is done on that side.

The other side on the first floor is for interviews. Each employee is interviewed through a series of heavy questions, to which a disliked answer from the interviewee quite literally results in his or her death. Surely you understand that as well. You do not walk into a building with undercover murders and expect to leave unscathed. Unless, of course, you get hired; then you are free to walk about however you want, as long as you keep that mask on.

As for the other twenty floors, they are simply there to hold all the storage rooms and training rooms. There _are_ rooms where new employees go for "orientation"; what this means is that the trainers (a group of "retired" workers who now do the training for the new fry) take a few of the stray "you don't have to kill So-And-So right now because So-And-So is not important enough" assignments, track down the victims, and politely ask the new members of M. Inc. to, pretty please, kill the victim in whatever way suits them best.

If the new member is squeamish, or cannot complete the murder, he or she is executed on the spot, and the next person in line is requested to do it (unless there is only one new member at the time of the training). Once that part of the training is over, each trainee is given and put under the "care" of a trainer—or in Erik's case, simply someone who knew the business as well as the back of his own hand.

Masquerade Inc. ran on fear and trust—fear your superiors, but trust them, and in turn, they will look after you.

It was like one big, somewhat happy family.

It was this thought that was passing through Erik's mind as he climbed up the impossibly long flight of stairs to the fifteenth story. The hundreds of stairs did not weaken him whatsoever; Erik was hardly affected by the constant climbing that would tire out any other man within minutes. Steadily, he plodded on, until the ground leveled out and he made a right, heading for his own office.

Each employee had their own workspace, and it was strictly _verboten_ (that is "forbidden" in German) for any employee to enter the room of another's without permission.

So, when Erik soundlessly approached his office, and found the usually locked door open ajar, his anger was quite justifiable. His eyes immediately narrowing, his left hand reaching for the faithful Punjab lasso at his side, he eased the door open another half inch. He stared into his office, and rolled his eyes before pushing the door open and striding in.

It was a girl. _The_ girl, he deducted indiscriminately, the one he was supposed to train. She had not touched anything, he noted with satisfaction, and her back was to him. Her hands were folded behind her back, and he quite clearly saw that she was not armed. She was peering with interest at the various framed paintings that were hung up on the walls.

Erik stood silently, his expression (which would be lost on the girl, due to the mask) austere.

Finally, she turned around, and Erik could see her light blue eyes, widening in shock, from behind the dark red mask she wore, which covered the top half of her face. Apparently, she had not heard him come in, he mused, quite pleased with his own stealth.

Her hands came up to her mouth, and she stammered a few excuses in hasty apology. Erik raised a brow; if she had been hired, then she was definitely not a fluttery "oh dear me" type. Then again, Erik did not know of just how intimidating he could look. He was tall, well over six feet, and always dressed impeccably. The stark contrast of the white mask against his otherwise completely black outfit would scare anyone half out of their wits. Not only that, but when he grew irritated, the negative vibes practically radiated from him in waves of throbbing energy.

In a soft, deadly voice, he spoke. "Do you know the penalty for entering a personal space without consent?"

The girl – well, she was more of a young woman, most likely in her late twenties – looked stunned. She was trembling slightly, but not with fear. Yes, she was scared, she would admit that one-day, but she was quaking because the voice that issues from those thin, sculpted lips was undeniably beautiful. His voice – dear God, his _voice!_ – had a depth and timbre that simple mortals could never hope to have.

"Monsieur," she breathed, awed by the sheer power of his voice, "I am sorry, so sorry… my name is--"

"Do not tell me your name," he cut across her, brushing by her. He took off his heavy cape and hung it on a stand, turning to fix her a stern stare. "There are no names here. There are no names, and no identities, and you should do well to remember that."

"Yes, monsieur," she said, obviously humbled by his cold, aloof personality, "but how will--"

"You will earn yourself a name," he interrupted her again, already knowing her questions. The trainees never asked anything original. "Your earned name will be your code name here."

She nodded mutely, and Erik stared at her for a while. Finally, he sighed, and gestured for her to exit the office. She did, and he followed.

At the door, he stopped her with a wave of his hand and gave her a few more parting instructions.

"Never take that mask off. Never take anyone else's mask off. Never refer to yourself by your actual name, and never refer to anyone else by their name." He paused to regard her. She was staring up at him with an expression of great profound wonder on her face. He almost snorted. These girls, these women; these female things – they were all the same. So easily snagged by his voice. "Do not doubt. Do not hesitate. If you want to live, you will kill."

He smiled oddly at her, and she shivered, but was unable to tear her gaze away from his eyes.

"Welcome to Masquerade."

He turned to go, but she ventured a question, and Erik was vaguely pleased that she sounded less nervous than she did five minutes ago.

"Please, monsieur, could you tell me a little about this place?"

Erik paused delicately, but did not move to face her just yet. He was not unfamiliar at all with the training program; if she had made it this far already, then she had already been informed about Masquerade. Everything that she needed to know about the building, its employees, and the expectations of her, she would by now already know.

Erik was not wrong to be suspicious; the young woman had asked him to stay to speak a little more because she found that she didn't quite want him to leave. She twisted a lock of her vivid red hair around her finger, and hoped that the mask she wore was wide enough to cover the blush that had painted her cheeks for no apparent reason.

His voice was so beautifully pitched, so beautifully modulated; she simply wanted to listen to him forever and a day.

Erik rolled his eyes. _Women_, he thought contemptuously. He did not see the blush on her face, and even if he had turned around right then, he most likely would not have commented on it. But he recognized that hopeful tone in her question, and saw right through her un-thought out bluff.

But he would humor her—for a few minutes, anyway.

"What would you like to know?" he finally said, turning slowly to look at her.

She composed herself visibly and straightened. "The company. The company's name, that's not its actual name. Where did the idea of masks come from?"

"From me," he answered casually, watching the way her eyes widened in surprise, "You are correct, mademoiselle, and you know that the company name is actually _Aiguilles_." He nodded once, and she blinked in acknowledgement. "Masquerade is the company's soubriquet. As the employees have their own codenames, so does the company. It is nothing special; merely a more common, everyday name that the company uses."

She nodded slowly.

Erik stared at her for a second or so more, and then dipped his head curtly. "If that is all, I shall be seeing you tomorrow morning sharp, mademoiselle."

She hurriedly nodded again, and he took his leave quietly.

He needed to check for new assignments.

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**A/N:** And chapter one is completed! By the way, this is in NO WAY an E/OW phic. That new trainee does play a big part in the story, though. I know, no Christine so far, but never fear! She's on her way, I promise. Stay tuned for the next chapter, and please leave a review. (: 


	3. Two

Hello, my lovelies! Wonderful to see you all again, I must say. I thought I'd just like to note that this story is AU, but only in the sense that although some events/situations/etc from the movie/books/etc does happen, they don't happen at the same times/places. Just for an example, Erik… er, darn it all, I can't give you any examples or else I'll ruin the story.

But just take my word for it.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Erik, but Erik owns me. I don't own anything else PotO-related, either, except for a book, a DVD, and a piano book.

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**Two.**

Nadir Khan was a good man.

Oh, there were plenty of people who claimed to be "good men", but Nadir was a genuinely, sincerely, without a doubt in anyone's mind; he was a good man.

How on earth did he end up working at _Aiguilles_ Inc.?

Nadir was a manager, to be precise, but he mostly received and assembled the orders. Actually, it was a manager's job to gather the instructions. He was one of the people who made sure that each request was given to the right employee, and that the requests did not go astray. Confidentiality was very important in a fickle business such as this.

Each manager (although they were more commonly known as "filers") is paired up with one employee. Sometimes, two or three employees are assigned to one filer, but it is usually a one to one ratio.

Nadir sighed, crossing the room to the large metal cabinets. He flicked at the lock with a key, and pulled the top one open. He rifled through the thick folders within, efficiently flipping until he reached a particularly stuffed folder. It was marked with a simple _Phantom_ in the tab. He briefly pushed up his brown mask, just long enough to rub his eyes.

He lifted it out, nearly dropping it as a few loose-leaf pages slipped from between the open sides. Nadir staggered back and dropped the file on to a desk.

The rooms that stored all the folders for all the employees were shaped more like long halls than an actual room. Cabinets lined the walls, and there were large desks set up at intervals, along with chairs.

Nadir dropped heavily into a chair, and wearily opened up the file.

"How many new requests does he have?" another filer called to him from across the room. Nadir glanced up, smiling wryly.

"More than any of us could handle, I'm sure," was his flat, but amused reply.

The other laughed. "You sound irritated, Kashan!"

"It's certainly quite annoying to be putting all these in order, Canine, you know that," he said, not looking over as he carefully rearranged the requests, in alphabetical order.

Even the managers went by codenames.

"Canine" strolled over, after he organized the requests for his own assigned partner. He had a dog-shaped mask. Creativity did not run high in this department.

"Really, Kashan, you should be happy; what they pay you is certainly worth the trouble." His dark green eyes twinkled as he sat himself down beside the Persian. "So, satisfy my curiosity, who's on his list first, this time?"

Nadir looked up in irritation.

"You know these files are confidential," he scolded, tugging the papers closer to prevent Canine from peeking at any of the names.

"I know, I know," he sighed, leaning back in his chair, "but you could just give me a—"

A hand descended lightly down on Canine's shoulder, its presence accompanied by an icy voice. "I don't think so, monsieur."

Canine jerked in surprise, and Erik smiled down carelessly at him. Canine broke into another wide grin.

"Phantom! You scared me."

"I have that effect on many people," Erik said peacefully, which caused the man to laugh quietly.

"You're horrible, Phantom, you really are." Still chuckling, Canine took his leave, which left the room empty save for the Phantom and the Kashan.

Erik sat down idly by Nadir, who glanced up in amusement.

"I fail to understand if Canine is merely impaired, or moronic."

The Persian went back to double-checking the files. "You have the best conversation starters," he said sarcastically, sliding a few pages towards him.

Erik let out an indifferent huff of breath, and unhurriedly lifted the top page, letting his gaze roam down the request. Every request came in a sheet that was filled out by hand, giving the necessary information.

**Request for**: _Please write legibly. the Phantom. _

**_Fatality Name_**_: Full name is required. Christine Daaé._

**_Age_**_: 16._

**_Sex_**_: Female._

**_Reasons_**_: Enclosed._

"Where's the envelope?" he said, at length, glancing under the pages.

"Eh?" Nadir blinked, and rummaged around as Erik gestured to the word "enclosed". "Oh, wait, I put that with the…" He held up a small envelope, labeled "Phantom; Confidential".

Erik took it from him, and leaned back in his chair. Nadir looked over curiously for a few seconds before returning to his work.

The Phantom casually tugged out the letter and set about reading it. He wrinkled his nose. There were spelling mistakes all over the place, and the writing was in a childish scrawl. There were also a few blots of ink here and there.

"Disgusting," he muttered to himself.

_To the Phantom,_

_Well over a decade ago, Gustave Daaé promised to bring liberty and recognition to the Gypsy clans across France. We have been treated for ages like dogs! Like the dregs of society! It has at last come to this and we will not stand for it any longer._

_A deal was made with Monsieur Daaé._

Erik sat up with mild interest now.

_He had much influence at the Opera Museum, and promised to bring to us the Saint Diamond. With that Diamond we would have been able to ask for the help of the Endless. Yes, Phantom! We would have asked for help from one of the most powerful of the seven—Death! We would have begged at her feet for her to rain revenge and fear and_

Erik paused, wrinkling his nose. Most of the letter was rambling about Death and Delirium and Despair, all with capital Ds. But the mention of the Saint Diamond had intrigued him greatly; there was a great legend that surrounded that rock-sized jewel. _He who wields the Diamond is He who may Answer to Death._ Erik hardly believed in such tall tales, though. He skimmed the rest of the letter until the last few paragraphs.

_He broke the deal. He ran from the country with his wife, and we cursed him. Yes, we placed a terrible curse upon him. He was to live for only another 2, 666 days after his wife would die in childbirth._

_Three years later, his wife died, after giving birth to a girl. Seven years after the girl's birth, Gustave died._

_It was good enough for my uncle. But it is not good enough for me! I leave the last task to you, Phantom. Kill the girl. But she must suffer; she must suffer beyond anything she could possibly endure. Do what you will with her._

_Enclosed is fifty thousand francs, the required deposit. The other half I shall deliver in person when your task is completed._

_- D._

Erik leaned back in his seat in reflective silence for a while, and then pulled towards him the background information of this Daaé girl.

"There's a picture too," Nadir piped up, glancing up and sliding over a photo. It was an old photo, taken perhaps four years ago. Erik stared down at the picture, and the girl in the picture seemed to stare back at him. She had somewhat dreamy-looking brown eyes, and long brown curls. He made a thoughtful sound, critically picking up the photo.

"We were not given any recent pictures?" he prompted, narrowing his eyes at the photo.

"No, sorry, but that should be enough. I don't think there's many girls with curly brown hair at the Opera House."

"She works there?"

Nadir shrugged. "She's a chorus girl. It's all in the information sheet, just read that."

Erik obliged, falling silent as he read over the sheet of paper that would tell him enough about the girl to ensure a simple death.

"I'm supposed to make her suffer," he said casually, tapping his fingers against the table idly as he took in the data about Mademoiselle Daaé.

"Really? This seems to be a bit personal, then?"

"Evidently so," Erik mused, "she is terribly naïve."

"Who? The Daaé girl?" Nadir looked mildly interested.

Erik nodded slowly, and read out quietly from the sheet in his hands. "_At sixteen years of age, Christine Daaé still clutches desperately to the Scandinavian fairy tales that her father used to read to her. Upon his deathbed, Gustave promised to send her an Angel to protect her once he was gone. Being a musician with a musically orientated child, Christine was promised an Angel of Music. It has been nine years since her father's death, but Miss Daaé still believes in this Angel._"

Nadir smiled indulgently. "She is only sixteen, after all."

"_Only._" Erik made a vaguely dubious sound at the back of his throat, and read the rest of the sheet in silence. It had all the data he would need, of course; where she lived, her schedule, the people she usually hung around with, the people close to her, etc.

Erik considered the information carefully, a plan forming in his mind. _She must suffer beyond anything she could possibly endure._

"Nadir," he said quietly, almost inaudibly.

The Persian's gaze snapped up and he hissed in an equally near-silent voice, "For heaven's sake, don't use my real name here, do you want to give me a heart attack?"

Erik smirked lightly.

"Nadir," he said again, in a slightly sing song voice, teasing his companion.

The Persian slammed the folder shut.

"Erik," he said tensely, his voice a severe whisper, "you have known me long enough to know that I will end up obeying whatever capricious request you give me, so stop toying with me!"

Erik chuckled lazily. "I need roughly a year or two to kill this child."

Nadir stared blankly, uncomprehendingly at him. "Yes… I will give you two years off, but… you need two years to kill the girl?"

Erik smiled; Nadir shuddered.

"Yes," he said softly, "I believe Miss Daaé should be well acquainted with her Angel of Music before he kills her, don't you think?" The Persian's eyes widened, in horror, at this subtle rhetorical question.

"Erik," he whispered, quite forgetting about codenames, "you would do that? You would bring her most desired dream to life, and then extinguish it? That is betrayal beyond betrayal… you would do that?"

Erik smiled again. "She must suffer," he pointed out, apparently uninterested with the Persian's reaction, "I am merely fulfilling my duties, in a somewhat creative manner that puts my, ah, talents to use. Do you not agree?"

"It's—creative, yes," Nadir said, flabbergasted, "but it's so _cruel_."

"Oh, Nadir," Erik sighed lightly, "don't tell me you have suddenly sprouted a conscience."

"You know very well that I have always had a conscience, Erik…"

"You should do well to curb it, then."

Nadir looked somewhat stern. "_You_ have a conscience, too."

Erik didn't say anything for a while, apparently engrossed with rereading the information sheet. When he finally looked up, there was an odd expression in his eyes.

"Yes," he said quietly, "but I choose to ignore it."

He collected the information papers on the Daaé girl efficiently, and tucked them into his pocket. "Pleasant conversing with you, Kashan, I shall see you around." He stood up and nodded curtly. Nadir had no choice but to lift a hand in a half-hearted farewell gesture, and watch as Erik quietly left the room.

That Daaé girl was in for it, now.

Yes, he had to learn how to keep his conscience at bay; consciences were not good when you worked with people like Erik. Nadir sighed fretfully, and began writing a letter requesting a two-year "break" for Erik.

The Phantom made his way back to his office. He eased into the room, and settled down into his chair, laying out the papers before him.

He flipped through the sheets until he had found the photo, and he lifted it up for inspection again.

"Christine Daaé," he repeated thoughtfully, pursing his lips.

**A/N:** And we finish another chapter… oh, tension! I just want to remind everyone that _no one_ at Masquerade Inc. knows of other people's first names. But Erik and Nadir knew each other personally before they ended up working at M. Inc. Just wanted to note that to save any confusion beforehand.

I also want to say—remember the A/N at the beginning of the chapter when I said that some events from the canon happens at different times in this story? Well, now as you can see, Erik _does_ "discover" Christine, but she is sixteen instead of seven. That's just one example. Stick with me until the next chapter; please leave a review! (:


	4. Three

Okay, guys, I made one very, very, very big change to this story—funnily enough, though, it doesn't really affect what you have read already. XD I changed the setting to modern. This is because I have been arguing back and forth with myself for the past week; do I stick with pretty corsets and evening gowns, or do I go with the more practical choice? I went with the more practical choice. ANYWAY. This doesn't change, at all, what you have read so far… so nothing to worry about. I just wanted to tell everyone. (:

And for some reason, I am getting less and fewer reviews… are my chapters getting more and more boring? Blink

_Some direct quotations from Kay are used. Just so you know._

**Disclaimer:** Blah, blah, blah, you know how this goes.

* * *

**Three.**

Erik slid through the halls of the Opera House casually, as if he did this everyday. For the record, he used to come see the operas a lot, but rarely had time to enjoy anything anymore. His work took up most of his time, and his plotting took up the rest of his time.

He glanced at his watch—nine pm. Good. Those ballet rats should be getting to bed about now, and he double-checked the loose pages in his pocket; yes, the Daaé girl slept in the dormitories with the other chorus girls.

Unwilling to be seen by the milling group of people who still stuck to their jobs at the Opera House, Erik kept loyally to the shadows. He got by like darkness personified; he passed within inches of people, and they hardly noticed him, so well concealed was he.

He paused behind the draperies on the landing, toying with his lip as he peered down the mostly deserted hallway. He rather wanted to see the theatre, a little curious to see if they had changed anything about it. Most of all, though, he rather missed the comforting, red atmosphere, and therein lay another part of the reason that he had asked for two years to finish this job.

He wanted an excuse to stay by music's side.

Ten years ago, he had had his share of fun in this place. The name Phantom had come from his, ah, former _occupation_, if you will. No one knew this except for Nadir, of course, but Erik had actually spent some years "haunting" the Opera House. It was really the easiest way to go into the performances without having to use the front door. Besides, it had amused him terribly to drive the managers out of their minds. Imagine demanding twenty thousand francs for a salary when he did nothing but cause trouble.

He did, however, give advice. He considered it an almost personal insult when a ballerina or a singer messed up, and he had caused many to be fired over the years.

Then Masquerade became too much—too many requests, too many jobs, and he had left the Opera as mysteriously as he had come to it.

No one had thought anything of it when the elusive Phantom of the Opera disappeared. He was a ghost, after all! Perhaps his tortured soul had finally been laid to rest.

Erik resisted the urge to snicker.

Ten uneventful minutes later, he had eased into one of the private boxes of the theatre; oh, he had plenty of time to find out what the Daaé girl looked like in person. The stage was not lit, but there were a few sidelights burning pleasantly. He glanced towards the enormous chandelier that was hanging neatly at the center of the ceiling.

He was pretty sure that the stage was empty; Erik was quite familiar with the schedule of occupants in the Opera House, and he knew that the night shift worked in rounds, and the next round was not due to start for another two hours.

So you can imagine his mild surprise when the electrical lights blazed to life, and he heard two distinctively female voices giggling. Oh hell, mischievous ballet rats who were skipping curfew, no doubt. Startled, he hastily drew back into the shadows, and took a moment or two to calm his heart. It was nothing to worry about! Casually now, he took a seat in the private box, and ignored them. They'd go away soon enough, and then he would go down to brazenly walk across the stage.

He'd always wanted to do that, hah.

"Meg, don't do that!" one of the girls said nervously, and Erik reached for last night's program. He flipped through it languidly, while unconsciously eavesdropping on the girls below.

"Oh, don't be such a coward, silly!" the other replied tartly, "You said you wanted to see the piano, didn't you? Well, come on, come on, before Mama finds out and strangles me."

Erik leaned back in the plush chair, patiently folding his hands over his stomach.

"I do, but—oh, Meg, won't we get into trouble for this?"

"Of course! But no one will catch us—no one will hear us, you know, except perhaps the Phantom."

Erik closed his eyes leisurely. So they had not yet forgotten the Opera Ghost.

"The _what?_"

"Not the what, the who! Oh, don't tell me you've never heard of the Opera Ghost, my dear… see that box up there? No, no, the other one. Yes, that one, there on the grand tier—that's _his_ box."

"_What?_"

"My dear! Don't you know? The Phantom has his own private box! He really owns this entire place, you know, he bosses the managers around terribly…"

Up in his "private box", Erik snorted in amusement.

"Of course," Meg's voice went on absently, "we haven't heard from him in a such a long time… perhaps he's bored. He helped me, you know, he's really quite generous if you respect him... Oh, why don't you—"

"Now, wait just one minute, Meg Giry, how do you know all this?"

"Never you mind! Mama and I know a lot about him, but you have to show him respect, because when he gets angry, he makes terrible things happen!"

"What things?" There was a note of unmistakable alarm in the other girl's voice.

"Simply _awful_ things; people disappear and are never heard from again… blood trickles down the walls…"

Erik listened in surprised enjoyment. He had abandoned the Phantom of the Opera game nearly a year ago, but it seemed that people were still willing to believe that he was still around.

"You're joking!" the other girl said, her voice a half gasp.

"Are you scared of him?"

"No! I don't believe he exists! There are no such things as ghosts!"

"You've gone white, my friend!" There was giggling on Meg's part, and a reproachful cry on the other girl's.

"We should go, we've lingered too long."

"You're such a serious little thing!"

"I am not, I just—"

"Sing for the Phantom, my dear! Mama says that _Faust_ is the Opera Ghost's favorite production, and you know the part of Margarita, right?"

"Yes, but why would I sing for—"

"I don't know, perhaps he'll help you, too. Don't be such a scared-y cat. Go on!"

Erik listened to Meg's inept fingers stumbled over the chords, and smiled indulgently. And then—the girl began to sing.

"_Oh, how strange!_

_Like a spell does the evening bind me!_

_And a deep languid charm_

_I feel without alarm_

_With its melody enwind me_

_And all my heart subdue…_"

Leaping up from his chair in Box Five, Erik choked on his next breath. She had precise pitch, crystal tonality… she had a near _perfect_ instrument… and yet there was no inner will! She sang with immaculate technique and astonishing talent—but there was no passion, no joy, no expression—nothing! There was nothing in her voice. It was like listening to a dead person sing.

There was infinite promise in her voice so sweet and true—a rich, throbbing vein of silver and gold that lay untouched beneath a lifeless, cold layer of emptiness.

It was painful to bear—she was dying on that stage, and Erik couldn't bear to listen to such agony. He couldn't stand it. He had to leave this stage right now, and go kill someone to relieve stress. But his morbid curiosity forbid him to leave just yet… he had to see what she looked like, first.

He slowly eased to his feet and cautiously looked over the ledge. He nearly keeled over in shock—the thick brown curls, those large brown eyes—oh, Hell, _no_.

Shakily, he sat down, and felt a scowl worming over his lips.

Great. Just great.

That talented zombie down there was Christine Daaé.

Irony was a bitch, he reflected bitterly, resting the back of his head against the wooden frame of the chair. So this was Christine Daaé. Quite a beautiful girl, really, with her tumbling chocolate hair, and porcelain skin—but it was the voice that shook him the most.

This was the girl he had to get rid of.

Vaguely, Erik wondered to himself if he would be able to finish this job. Immediately, he laughed loudly at himself, and then quickly clapped a hand over his mouth as, from down below on the stage, Christine interrupted her singing to squeak, "Did you hear something, Meg?"

_Erik! Poor thing, you listen to a girl sing a few phrases and you begin to doubt your own capability._

How very pathetic.

Erik rolled his eyes. He was underestimating himself—and overreacting to a mere voice. This was merely another girl. Another victim.

Nothing special.

"Hey, who's there?"

Feeling marginally better, Erik glanced over the edge of the box again. Meg and Christine were scurrying from whoever had shouted, and they were both giggling nervously as they ran out the side-door.

Logic hit him then, and he almost reeled with the sheer simplicity of it. Why, of course! He had been planning on coming to her as her Angel of Music, but now he could _teach_ her as her Angel. Yes, he could fuse her voice with his, and her voice would be his alone! It was a part of her that he could steal from right under her very nose. Then he would kill her and be done with her.

Yes, that seemed to be in order.

Feeling much better now, Erik slid from the darkness of Box Five and began making his solitary way to the managers' office.

It was time for the Phantom of the Opera to make a comeback.


End file.
